Untitled Ending
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: At night, all hospital rooms looked the same. EO. SPOILERS FOR UPCOMING EPISODES.


_Thanks to Mel and Michelle for the beta. This is for Myshka23, who-not only because she is the birthday girl-rocks hard._

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At night, all hospital rooms looked the same. The blank walls taking on a faint, blue hue from the fluorescent lights.

She didn't awaken like most people in the movies did; it wasn't a slow fluttering of vaseliney lids with a set of lips parting to speak that first, comforting word. The first thing that registered was the dank, repulsive taste in her mouth and when she attempted to pry her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she gagged. After taking a huge, soothing breath through her nose she wriggled the muscle until it pulled away from her teeth and gums and worked her lips open.

Gasping when her lips cracked she finally managed to open her eyes a fraction, lifting a sore hand to scrub the crusties off of her lids. The throbbing in her head and knees knocked her right back into reality and after taking a large swallow to quell the medication nausea she took a moment to roll the knots out of her neck.

To her left was the door, a stream of saline, white light filtered through the rectangular window; to her right her partner sat slumped in a plastic chair. His cell phone was on his hip, his chin covered in unruly stubble that looked as though it'd been attacked with a rusty Exacto knife.

Her heart rate picked up immediately; she could feel it thumping away hard in her chest as though it ruled all other parts of her body. For a moment she imagined speaking while her heart was running so fast, sounding like a Chipmunk and a smart guffaw slipped out of her.

He didn't move; Elliot didn't move and it scared her.

"Hey," came her quiet, pained rasp but he mad no move to signal that he'd heard her. With his body slumped over on itself, it looked as though he was asleep. But she knew what he looked like asleep, knew what he looked like awake and he was most certainly conscious. There was a weight about his shoulders that slacked off when he found slumber and at the moment it appeared as though there were copious bricks resting on either side of his head.

Olivia attempted to sit herself up but cringed when the wound in her arm screamed itself known. Head falling back to the pillow with a dull thunk, she groaned and rolled her eyes closed. She didn't see when he lifted his head, blue eyes both accusing and sad. "Don't... try and move," he whispered and straightened his spine, his hands being pushed down hard on the front of his thighs, palms smoothing over the wool of his pants.

"Elliot, I-" her throat cracked and she coughed. He looked to the pitcher of water by the bed and yet still did not move, simply looked at her as a wave of pain passed over her face.

With closed eyes, fingers clutching his knees until his knuckles turned white he managed to bark out, "Don't talk."

The beep of the heart monitor in the next room was faint in their ears, but she concentrated on it so that she wouldn't have to concentrate on him. While she imagined how his heartbeat must be doing double time to the succinct, steady sound of the monitor, Olivia attempted to place the exact hue that spanned the walls.

"What the hell were you thinking?" came the eventual accusal, quiet and succinct it came through loud and clear. She couldn't tell if he was spurred on by anger or concern. Olivia supposed it didn't really matter; it was just... settling... to be able to see him again, see his face, hear his voice, watch his eyes attempt to remain neutral while he was so worked up.

Beep, beep, beep...

Olivia coughed and rolled to her side, reaching for the pitcher at the bedside table, "Do. Not. Try... to move," he managed.

Elliot suddenly mobilized, scrambled to his feet and crossed the room, pouring out a small ration of water into the cup. Rounding the bed once more, he handed it to her and sank back down in the chair.

For a second it felt as though she'd been slapped in the face and she wasn't sure why. Watching his chest rise and fall a few times, she closed her eyes and swallowed, willing herself to calm down and rationalize.

Hesitantly, she raised the waxy cup to her lips and moved the liquid down her throat, the cool beverage causing her throat to throb in pain. "Thanks."

Beep, beep, beep...

"Yeah."

Again, the steady sound broke the silence in the room, but just barely; she could hear his breathing and he could hear hers, raspy and labored but he couldn't bring himself to offer comfort. "You're pissed at... me," she managed, crushing the flimsy cup in her hand.

Maybe it would have done a justice to count of the number of people she'd saved by infiltrating. Perhaps it would have been beneficial to speak of all the good she had done that month and a half away. If she could possibly manage to verbalize the horrors that she halted, maybe he wouldn't hate her so much.

When he began to cry, she didn't hear him. She didn't hear him crying because he didn't want her to hear him. So he sat in the hard-back chair with tiny droplets rolling over his cheeks. "Hey," was the only thing she managed to whisper.

Turning his head away, his fingernails dug into the fabric of his pants and pulled. With a lip between his lips, white with pressure, he attempted to steady himself. How was he supposed to tell her that he'd nearly died when a madman raised a gun to her head. How to tell her that there was nothing worse that falling for the one person you can't fall for. How, really, was he supposed to say that he needed her to stop fucking around and just stay beside him and with him and just never, never leave?

Try and try again.

And again, and again, and again...

"I... prayed," he said quietly, biting his lip, grasping his knees while looking away. Such a fragile, personal admission that he had to fight to keep his voice from shaking. "I prayed and... I haven't prayed in twenty years, bu-"

Something snapped within her, triggered her automatic defensive response. He was too quiet, too poised, too ready to blame everything on her. "Nice Catholic boy like you hasn't prayed in twenty years? I don't believe tha-"

"I prayed for you." Elliot said forcefully and sat straight in the chair, staring her down.

Suddenly bashful, somewhat ashamed, her eyes fell to where her hands were twisting in her lap. "It didn't work," her voice attempted to deliver the joke in a quiet manner but it cut through the still air like a kitana. Everything had changed. Everything had... changed.

Spite, venom in his gaze, in the cadence of his voice and she was afraid for a moment of crying. It hurt her when he hurt and when his eyes went from hard to soft she had to fight back a sigh of relief.

Outside of the room, people in green scrubs shuffled by, the sound of flimsy wheels rattling against the floor clinking around between the walls of the hallway. A gaggle of purple scrubbed individuals paused in front of her door and picked up an impromptu conversation and Olivia chose the distraction to give her eyes a moment to focus, to give her heart a minute to play catch up.

"You're back," he finally said and while she didn't turn to face him, couldn't search his eyes for meaning, she knew exactly what he was implying.

If she had been up to it they would have gone round for round, screaming at each other. They would have yelled and accused and talked until they both couldn't stand the sight of each other

But for the moment they resigned themselves to being weak.

The tear in her shoulder was still fresh so they settled for sitting beside each other, breathing, pretending that there weren't words that needed to be spoken.


End file.
